


The English Doctor's Vice

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drug Addiction, Friends to Lovers, Gambling, M/M, Miscommunication, Note: Mary is not a love interest in this version of SIGN ( ala Granada), Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Prostitution, merely referenced as potential behaviour, none of these is pictured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: In ACD Canon, Watson claims to have two sets of vices Holmes should be aware of before they decide to room together: one when ill and one when well. What are these vices when well? Holmes is determined to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [okapi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/gifts).



> A Fandon Loves Puerto Rico winning bid for Okapi, who provided this prompt which is so very rich with potential! Thank you for the excellent prompt, as well as for your support of the hurricane survivors.
> 
> Note: "The English Vice" is a term used to refer to either sexuallised spanking or homosexuality.

When Watson and I entered our agreement to share rooms, he was, in some ways, a different man.

I do not say this to suggest his having resided with me at Baker Street these many years had altered his nature in any fundamental way- far be it for me to command that sort of profound influence over another. My meaning is a far simpler one.

When Watson and I met, he was ill.

He had, in fact, assured me that his vices were limited to the keeping of a bull pup, objecting to rows due to his shaken nerves, getting up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and being extremely lazy... _and_ that he had another set of vices when he was well. As two set forth within this list could easily apply to my own person as well, and given the fact that I saw little harm in those yet remaining, the arrangement was finalised with a handshake and I returned to my bodkin and pipette. The mysterious second set of vices were, at this point in time, entirely unknown to me. I was determined that they not remain so for long.

I considered the situation in greater depth after Stamford and my flatmate-to-be had quit the laboratory. The man hadn't the distinct cranial slope of the violent criminal, nor the reddened face of the drunkard. I strongly suspected he might harbour a penchant for gambling. Such a vice was common enough amongst military men, who spent countless hours entrenched and would frequently rely upon cards or dice for amusement. I had no qualms with wagering in principle, my only concern being the possibility of continually misspent funds leading to missed shares of rent. A mild gambling issue was of no consequence whatsoever; a severe one, however.... I needed to make an assessment rapidly, before our finances were in any manner entwined.

When I met him noon the following day, as previously arranged, we walked past the paperboy and I commented on the racing results. I stated Grannie's Fresh Knickers was a heavy favorite, but had not done well in the last race, fueling talk that the owner's financial instability had promoted a deliberate loss to lower the odds and increase the payout in the next one. This was entirely fictional on my part, right down the the name of the horse in question, but such a discussion is one no seasoned gambler could ignore. Had he disregarded the conversation completely it would have been just as suspicious as had he pressed me on the matter, but Watson showed the proper level of mild interest. Not gambling, then.

Next, I wished to determine if his vice was something more akin to my own.

Many would believe a medical man unlikely to take any preparation to excess… but I have known certain vices to be even more pronounced when the user has had frequent exposure to the substance. It is difficult to feel you are sustaining injury from what often amounts to, shall we say, an old, chemical friend. Aside from possibly having acquired the same sense of invulnerability to morphine that I myself had cultivated early on (and tamed only in recent years), I knew Watson had been injured in the Afghan War. That he should have taken such a remedy would have been a certainty. His having developed a dependency on the drug remained a distinct possibility and required investigation. I am ashamed to admit my first, as well my second, thoughts on the matter were unenviable ones.

The first, as anyone finding themselves in a predicament similar to mine and choosing to be truthful might readily disclose in confidence, was if the good doctor was inclined to overuse morphine we could neither of us be trusted to not interfere with the other's stashed supply. With a flatmate well-versed in medicine, I would be more or less forced into honesty; with a fellow addict in another manner of employ, I could have diluted their reserve easily enough. It is not a pleasant thing upon which to dwell, so I shall move forward. 

The second, though equally practical and straightforward, was far more positive-minded and… somewhat less shameful. A man in his profession would have ample access to the highest grade of pharmaceuticals available. I considered this a tremendous benefit, should we, in fact, share this vice.

I can offer no justification for such avenues of thought save that they are those of a man in whom the sleeping giant was wide awake and bent on its course of destruction. It is not my intent to shock the reader, but rather is part and parcel of my own commitment to truth in recalling my experience, lest I again attempt to convince myself it was but a harmless folly. But that vice, I soon determined, was mine alone.

I would not say I had forgotten the matter, but it did weigh less heavily upon me over time. Whatever it was, it had no effect upon his reliability as a housemate, nor upon my growing interest in him in general. A few weeks in, it had yet to present itself. Perhaps he was not yet well enough. From the slightest character flaw to the largest moral failure, I was prepared to offer up a showing of tolerance the likes of which the world has never seen. If he required assistance in overcoming some secret problem, I would devise a systematic plan to conquer it.

The next possibility took a surprisingly long time to have occurred to me. It had to be women. But not just any women. Those of the more unconventional sort. It would be logical that he was accustomed to paying for female companionship but refused to do so due to his perceived ill health. This saddened me. In what manner was Watson thinking himself incapable of this vice? Had he injuries: scarring beneath his clothing which had been maligned by some opprobrious woman who ought to have provided physical comfort, but instead had brought only distress? I had certainly seen no indication of scarring on any visible parts of Watson's body, but he clearly had a pronounced limp, and held his shoulder at an awkward angle. As the damp cold found its way into our separate chambers, he would often roll about in distress. I asked Mrs Hudson to ensure a more robust fire.

I have heard of men returning from wars with injuries to their minds as well as their bodies. Could one of these be preventing Watson from his usual fill of the fairer sex? That such a man should think himself anything less than desirable was dispiriting. I made a point of voicing small compliments, such as admiring the cut of his suit- the way it spanned his shoulders to good effect. I often found myself eyeing the man in the chair opposite me, even after I had already offered up my compliment of the moment. He was quite handsome, and I grew indignant on his behalf...my anger at this theoretical woman increasing each time I viewed Watson's rather athletic physique. This had not been a professional. If she had been, she would have seen far worse and yet maintained her composure. It was far more likely that one of the more delicate creatures he had met upon his return had paled at the sight of his all-too-fresh injuries, every one of them obtained in the service of the crown. How dare she!

Or perhaps his wounds were of an entirely different sort. By his own admission he had frayed nerves. Even safely seated by the fire, abrupt noises would frequently startle him. Upon his very first day lodging with me, a hansom had unexpectedly clipped a hitching post outside our window, and he very nearly bolted from his seat. On such occasions, his reaction was not entirely outside the realm of the commonplace, save for the amount of time he took to become at ease once more. His fingers remained clenched to the chair in a vice grip, his breathing was still far too quick and shallow, and he would even (though without awareness- of this I am certain) glance toward his service revolver, tucked away within the bureau. Perhaps he found that degree of physical vulnerability- nude, with someone more or less a stranger- entirely too difficult a position when he lacked his usual self-possession of reflexes and responses. Which led me, then, to the passing thought that there might, in fact, be anatomical problems related to intimacy. To respond in such a manner to severe stresses was far from unusual. And if that were the case, once he was well I should expect to see either a steady stream of female visitors, or Watson headed out nighty, only to return to Baker Street in shoes splattered with Whitechapel mud. I did not relish the thought, though I knew not why. It was certainly no business of mine.

Last night proved another uncomfortable one for my new companion. The evening was far from cold, however, so it must have been his injuries-- still a source of ongoing pain and restless nights. I dressed in preparation for breakfast in the sitting room. As I laced my shoes, I resolved to offer Watson something far stronger than whatever medicine he had on hand. There was no reason for him to suffer through it. If he required a sleeping aid to assist him in detaching from ongoing troubles, I could provide just the thing. If it was a deep-seated pain, I would see to it that we'd determine the precise dosage and form of narcotic required. It was somewhat of a risk, to admit I was expert in such matters, but I did not care one whit.

Seated at the table, I rather innocently asked Watson to pass the sugar, and then began.

"How are you finding the rooms?"

Watson looked up from his paper and smiled.

"Excellent, thank you. And Mrs Hudson is quite the cook."

"Well, breakfast is a sort of specialty."

"I rather enjoyed the Wellington for supper."

"That was a bit of a singularity. Still celebrating your arrival, no doubt. Feed a lodger well early on, and the lasting impression you make is well worth the expense." I winked before I was fully cognisant of having done so. "And are you finding the bed comfortable as well? When one returns from being stationed abroad, I should think adjusting to an expansive and soft bed, as opposed to the constricted space of a standard-issue cot, might prove a difficult task."

He glanced at me quickly, then immediately returned his gaze to the paper, hiding his face behind a bold print headline proclaiming some royal event I had no use for. I am quite certain I frowned.

"Many things which were far simpler in Afghanistan are proving to be unexpectedly awkward upon my return," he stated. There was shame in the words. There was no need over an understandable reaction. If I could find the right words.... I opted to be direct. 

"Civilian life certainly has its differences. That is to be expected. It should not become a source of embarrassment." 

He folded his paper and this time he looked directly at me in disbelief, remaining silent. 

"I may not be a military man, Watson, but there are indeed some things of which I am very much aware- either from the experiences of others who have offered me frank commentary, or from my own common sense."

He watched me for a moment more and then stated "My leg aches in cold weather, but it is my shoulder injury which makes things... difficult... in the evening hours."

"Yes, finding a comfortable position is indeed difficult, I'd imagine." I hesitated. He might think the worse of me for the offer, but if he were to accept the aid it would have been well worth the risk. I cleared my throat and he stared at me again with those deeply blue eyes.

"I might... prove to be of some assistance... on that account."

He flushed. "I have no need of--"

"Yes, yes, I know. Doubtless, you can get by on your own. And, as a physician, you are certainly well aware of the risks. I, as you may already have guessed, believe them to be minimal. Addiction is not a predetermined outcome."

Watson finally smiled. "No. It certainly isn't. I believe I have the situation well under control. But, I certainly wouldn't mind some assistance. Since you have offered."

"Well, I know you clearly have quite a bit of knowledge and experience in securing relief, as an army doctor, but I have created my own programme of study at university. Between this methodology and my own personal experiments, I'm quite knowledgeable as well." I moved to lock the door. It would not do for Mrs Hudson or Billy to enter unexpectedly.

"Are you, now?" Watson rose, pulled out a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket, and scrawled something with great speed before returning it with a small flourish. "Then by all means, I shall require a suitable demonstration." And with that, he removed his suit coat, lay it across the breakfast table, and began to methodically unfasten his shirt cuffs. _Both_ of his shirt cuffs. Not simply what would be required to roll up a sleeve for access to his forearm. Why was he.... Oh, I had gotten it quite wrong. While my mind busied itself by replaying the actual conversation to find out at what point our meanings had diverged, my body had gone into a rather surprising series of motions of its own accord. Standing across from him, I found myself mirroring his movements- removing my own jacket, unfastening my cuffs, and unbuttoning my shirt (albeit far more rapidly than he). I slowed myself down to match his pace.

This was, in fact, an agreeable situation, though I was still entirely unaware of how we had navigated here. In no way did I wish to indicate that I had not intended to guide us both precisely to this point through deliberate action. By the time my mind returned from its engagement, I was well-aware my body had taken advantage of its absence and moved forward without seeking cognitive approval- as if it had been seeking out the opportunity for quite some time.

Watson continued speaking, as he finally dropped his shirt upon the floor. "I know many consider self-abuse- such inappropriate nomenclature- to be a vice. It is my personal view that it is no such thing, but I hold no illusions that any man with formal medical training would agree. My shoulder's limited range of motion affects my ability to a far greater extent than I had anticipated. Doubtless you heard evidence of my frustration."

"Yes. I thought you would appreciate someone with greater dexterity during your recovery." I strode for smooth-tongued and urbane as a mask for my muddleheadedness, and so I added, "Perhaps after your recovery as well. And I believe it would not meet the definition of self-abuse at any rate." He laughed then: full, rich, beautiful.

I smiled slowly, taking ample time for my lips to reach their intended position, and tried not to stare too openly at his well-muscled chest. Slower movements are often deemed more seductive, are they not? To be honest, I had scarce-little to draw upon. It had seemed as if they were, based on Watson's impossibly slow unbuttoning of his shirt and its effect upon my self.

Being far more savvy than I, he had no difficulty in observing the path of my eyes down his muscular frame. Nor should there be, I hastily reminded myself. We were here. Why mask our purpose? Thus, it was with a near-equal mix of heat and curiosity that I stepped forward, ran my hands across his chest, and kissed him. Again, slowly. Far more slowly than I wished to, thinking eagerness a sure sign of the novice.

On this count, I was also wrong (twice, in the course of well under a half-hour!) as he was upon me with lighting speed and efficiency. I thought back to my attempts to discern his vices, how I had ruled out gambling, yet here he was...seeing my affections and raising them. A masterful kiss had me drawing an involuntary breath (which I steadfastly refused to term a gasp) as the kiss became something entirely different and unexpected. I wanted more of him. His hands were making quick work of the fastenings on my trousers in a promise of delivering just that.

My clothing in a ragged pile at my feet, he mumbled something or other regarding my appearance. I daresay I missed the words, as I was far too focused upon the sensation of his mouth trailing down the planes of my stomach. Even though his goal was clear, and I remained stationary, I could still feel my body willing itself toward his mouth.

As his lips surrounded me, I had just enough capacity for thought to wonder what it was I should be doing. His hands reached 'round, holding me firmly in a strong embrace, and there was no part of him I could touch, save the top of his head (which seemed a crude gesture) and his shoulders (one of which bore scarring the likes of which I had never seen).

I closed my eyes, tilted my head back, and was suddenly all-too-conscious of my body. The surrounding air hit my peaking nipples and seemingly every neural pathway, even my scalp, felt vibrantly alive. I ran my fingers through my hair, then let my hands drag across my upper body, cautiously exploring my own reactions. Watson seemed to appreciate this, and drew me in deeper. I gasped, for there was no way to call it anything else, and he sucked harder.  
I gasped once more and he responded with a pattern of beautiful, escalating alternation. I never wished it to end. But end it would, and that thought hit hard at the back of my brain. I should warn him. I should say something... anything. I should move. But I simply stood, arms floating... somewhere... no, one was steadying myself using the side-edge of the table... and I was arcing my body as short spasms erupted along my spine. A guttural sound came from out my throat, which caused Watson to make a similar one in response before pushing me forward into his.

It was clear I was to simply let myself be swept away, and the flood of bliss was upon me in moments. I collapsed forward, and he rose to hold me up before effortlessly placing me back within my chair. My ears were ringing and I felt lightheaded- facts I discovered far too late in the process to have taken adequate steps to conceal them from my companion.

"Been some time, yes?" he stated. I nodded dumbly. _If 'never' qualifies as 'some time'._ Yes, I had felt such a release through my own efforts, but it was not at all comparable. "For myself as well," he continued. "Not since my return to London."

"This is hardly the solution to _your_ problem," I somehow managed to say, "which I had every intention of providing." Hah. If he only knew how many forms of truth lay within that statement, for it was hardly the solution I had intended to provide as well. And yet, I found myself reaching toward him once more, eager to experience this same act in a new way. I would not permit him to utter any words of placation; I would have him now.

And at that moment, I happened to glance toward the fireplace-- over which stood the mantle clock-- and Watson's eyes followed mine. We then, with remarkably comic precision (which I can now safely regard as such, since it all turned out well in the end) looked back at each other and then, wide-eyed and simultaneously, at the food growing cold upon the table. The door would remain locked, but Mrs Hudson would be knocking upon it shortly to pick up the empty breakfast plates. And there, mocking us for our reckless shortsightedness, was a ration of untouched bacon and eggs, four slices of toast and a full pot of tea.

Watson rushed to the door and put his ear to it, then grabbed the teapot, looked wildly 'round the room, and poured a sizeable amount into a potted plant. He then returned it to the table, scooped up some eggs and bacon with a slice of toast, and shoved it all into his mouth. He managed somehow, a piece of toast still wedged between his teeth, to retrieve his shirt and cufflinks from the floor before making a mad dash to his room.

I took a hurried fork to the eggs to cause disarray upon the plate before quickly downing some food myself. Then, I put on my own shirt and suit coat, and, upon hearing Watson still cursing and washbasin water splashing from within his room, concluded I had just enough time to retrieve the notebook from his.

Upon its pages was written:

_Sherlock Holmes: strengths and weaknesses_

_1\. Knowledge of Literature: Nil._  
2\. Knowledge of Philosophy: Nil.  
3\. Knowledge of Astronomy: Nil.  
4\. Knowledge of Politics: Feeble.  
5\. Knowledge of Botany: Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.  
6\. Knowledge of Geology: Practical but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them.  
7\. Knowledge of Chemistry: Profound.  
8\. Knowledge of Anatomy: Accurate but unsystematic.  
9\. Knowledge of Sensational Literature: Immense. He appears to know every detail of  
every horror perpetrated in the century.  
10\. Plays the violin well.  
11\. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.  
12\. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.  
13\. Knowledge of a Carnal Nature: Both systematic and profound. Charted his own course of study on the topic at university. Strong, aquiline features and dexterous hands from violin playing. Merits further exploration. 

Very well, then. I am to be an expert in sexuality. I have become an expert in many things over the years, as it suited me. And this suited me well.

I returned the notebook, knocked upon Watson's chamber door, and handed him the neglected article of clothing to the sound of Mrs Hudson's tread upon the stair.


	2. Chapter 2

After Mrs Hudson had been reunited with her tray, Watson turned back toward me once more. It was now readily apparent he was wearing a different tie than the one he had previously removed; this one had a caduceus stitched upon it.

"Going out before affording me the opportunity to prove my merit?"

Watson smiled. "I've a short appointment with Mr Farquar. He has informed me that, when I am ready to resume my practice, there is a surgery available next door to him which he believes would suit me well. It is but a matter of viewing the premises and placing a deposit, should I wish to secure it. The building is near to Paddington; I shan't be but three hour's time. Then, perhaps, we might resume our previous activities in the early evening?"

"Certainly. I'll be sure to use my time wisely," said I. Three hours. It would be a touch longer to arrive at Paddington and make his examination of the property, but for the sake of efficiency I would call it such. Three hours in which to learn all possible about pleasuring another man.

My first thought was to seek advice beyond the scope of the anatomy books which lay gathering dust upon my shelf. To start, I should reacquaint myself with Lomax, the sublibrarian at the London Library in St James Square. He would steer me toward more esoteric references. I set out the moment Watson's cab had rounded the corner.

Lomax, despite a casual and easy-going manner I could not help but think uncharacteristic of a man in his profession, had never failed to prove himself both discreet and helpful. When I had employed his services concerning the rather unusual death of a well-known socialite, he had demonstrated a knack for taking the sordid and translating it to the academic; I had learned a great deal about auto-erotic asphyxiation from the reference materials he provided me. The humour was not lost upon me that I might easily think of five ways in which to kill a man during an intimate encounter, but could think of no way in which to live up to my erroneous reputation as an expert in mutual pleasure. 

Listening attentively to my request for detailed erotic guides in a manner that would have made anyone feel at ease, Lomax disappeared and returned with a slim yellowback novel, a goodly volume as large as Watson's copy of Gray's, and a rather innocuous book of maps to place on top of the pile for discretion's sake. I followed him to a study room with the three references tucked beneath my arm. 

Upon unlocking the door to a small, private enclosure reserved for the most focused of students, Lomax stepped inside, closed it softly, and said "That should prove sufficient in explaining the finer points of the art and science of buggery, my friend," with a hearty clap upon my shoulder and a knowing smile. "Should you need further information, you might wish to meet with Pike. He has an extensive personal collection, though many works are not entirely accurate in their depictions." He held up the novel. "This one is, at least plausible." I thanked him. 

Langdon Pike was a well-known gossip columnist and Lomax's romantic partner of over twenty years. It was, in fact, Pike who had initially referred me to Lomax in the summer of '86, when I required reference materials concerning some of the rarer poisons whilst investigating the mysterious death of actor Jonathan Morgan. A good reference librarian is invaluable. Meanwhile, Pike had become my _human_ book of reference upon all matters of social scandal. 

Pike was strange, languid, with odd personal habits… in some ways reminiscent of brother Mycroft. Pike spent his waking hours in the bow window of a St James’s Street club, whereas Mycroft preferred the secluded interior of the Diogenes; both were equally expert in their respective fields and possessed an uncanny talent for observation; and neither moved an inch, if it could be helped. Whereas Mycroft's specialty was government machinations and complex algorithms for which he accepted a modest sum, Pike served as the receiving-station as well as the transmitter for all the gossip of the metropolis and made a four-figure income by the paragraphs which he contributed every week to the garbage papers which cater to an inquisitive public. 

As for the subjects of his writings, it was publicity they craved-- men and women who wished to always be kept fresh in the minds of the greater populace-- and should a scandal be deemed necessary to renew waning interest, Pike took great care that it was a harmless one. A separation where each was matched to a new, far superior partner, or a heated diatribe over being spotted wearing last year's hat. The latter being the sort of thing one especially wished to see in print, for every socialite knew that upon the following week Pike would praise his or her exquisite taste and brand new outfit, and all would be well with the world. The important bit was to never be forgotten.

Whereas most so-attuned had sinister intent-- I had rather negative dealings with men (I use the term loosely) such as Charles Augustus Milverton and Eduardo Lucas-- Pike was of a far less common breed. He knew everything about everyone, and yet chose to disclose only the tiniest percentage. The times Pike had informed me of both verified and unverified whisperings, it had never been for personal gain but was instead in the service of justice, or to provide closure, or to inform me of hitherto unexplored connections. In short, a Milverton for the forces of good, in as much as such a man could exist, though spending time with him was still less than pleasant. If ever, far down in the turbid depths of London life, there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was marked with automatic exactness by this human dial upon the surface. I had, on occasion, discreetly helped Pike to some knowledge, and, on occasion, I was helped in turn.

After an half-hour, Lomax checked upon my progress and collected the books to return them to some secreted shelf. "If you should require a demonstration, Mr Holmes, there is always Douglas Maberley." He winked. Nearly all of London knew Maberley as a quite magnificent creature, vibrantly alive, splendid. Fewer knew of his adventurous private parties; yet another secret kept firmly under wraps by Pike. "I have also heard talk of some invigorating serum which Dr Havel Lowenstein has concocted, though I should be reluctant to try it if I were you. It might just end in someone else coming to Langdon to seek information about your own... unusual... death." I filed this information away. 

"I may wish to discuss other matters with Mr Pike in the future, but I do believe the literature you provided on this subject will be sufficient, thank you. As for Mr Maberley and Dr Lowenstein... they will just have to wait for another day as well."

In truth, there was little that was new within what Lomax had provided. I was already aware of the anatomical suggestions regarding penetration, and the areas of greater or lesser sensitivity externally. There was also a rather annoying implication that to be truly effective, one must know one's partner well enough to determine the experience they would find most satisfactory in regard to pressure and timing, and that few reactions were truly universal. The blasted thing refused to so much as provide a single percentage-related statistic!

Perhaps Pike knew something of Watson, or of someone within his battalion who, in turn, knew Watson. Had I three days at my disposal, rather than three hours, I would have attempted to obtain data regarding Watson's reputation from his army cronies, but I had neither the time nor the inclination to meet them in a pub, ascertain which one would have the information I required, and get him drunk enough to disclose it. 

I was about to head home early in despair when I passed by that very spot on St James which Pike frequented. Yes, he was there, per his usual, drinking his brandy and gazing upon the streets, eyes searching out fresh information. I was in no mood for his oleaginous discourse, but it was my last hope. A tiny spot of news from which to extrapolate.

"Well, well, well, Mr Sherlock Holmes, have you come to ask me questions about someone questionable? To take notes on people of note? I saw you advancing upon the opposite side of the street, debating a crossing. I'm fairly certain you know what it means, to dally upon the pavement. I do, at any rate. Though your love is never for an individual whose heart beats for you alone; yours is for an individual whose heart has ceased beating altogether!" 

He tapped the surface of the table in front of the seat facing him with the head of his elaborately carved walking-stick. "Come, sir! Sit! And tell me how I can assist you in your new case. What is on that prodigious mind of yours? I've ample time. Perhaps even time enough to follow your leaps of logic on this go-round."

I took the offered seat. "My dear Mr Langdon Pike! How goes the business of dining in restaurants whilst watching the city wander past?"

"The man who can dominate a London dinner table can dominate the world, Mr Holmes." 

"Ah. It appears _unattributed_ quotation is _also_ a serviceable substitute for wit. To slightly modify Mr Wilde."

"Well, to quote a source I should have nothing but praise for referencing, Ecclesiastes...'There is nothing new under the sun'. Sadly, this also applies to a turn of the phrase. Anything not already said by Mr Wilde, Msr Voltaire, or Mr Twain, is likely not worth saying. The rest of us muddle through life feeding our wit upon their scraps, hoping for the blessing of being perpetually surrounded by the uninformed." 

He smiled and gestured to the view of the street from the window he never quite tore his gaze from. "My view is not so different from yours, my friend... but granted it is far less messy. I prefer not to crawl about in wheel ruts and carriage-strewn mud. But still, _both_ our businesses rely more or less upon knowing everyone else's. I hope you find that phrasing sufficiently altered? And in that regard, _my_ business is going particularly well as of late. _Parliamentary elections. _It always helps to be certain that key political figures and myself are in mutual agreement about the things we _don't_ know about each other. Now, what is it that _you_ should wish to know?"__

__I took a deep breath and attempted to make the matter seem of great import. "I require information on Dr John H. Watson, late of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers."_ _

__"Yes, yes, and what unfortunate end did the good doctor meet with?"_ _

__"He is alive."_ _

__"Ah, he yet lives and breathes till the moment he hangs from the gallows, then. Thought he was your victim, but now I see the full picture."_ _

__"He is neither a suspect, nor is he a victim. He... I wish to find out more about him."_ _

__"So he is a ... person of interest?" He eyed me judiciously. "A person of _personal_ interest?"_ _

__I said nothing._ _

__Pike angled his chair fully away from his window to face me directly. "Mr Holmes, I will tell you what I know of Dr John H. Watson, late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I know that regiment served in the Battle of Maiwand. I know any such man invalided home after that fight has sustained injuries and will know few people he can relate to in any meaningful way in London on account of there having been so few survivors. And I can not know with certainty, though I strongly suspect, that such a man would be extremely grateful for any pleasures at all which life would chose to afford him, in the mistaken belief that indifferent Fate would ever compensate him for his losses.”_ _

__I looked down at the table, humbled and chagrined by the pettiness of my query in light of his words._ _

__"I also know... that there is a man within that regiment who I have heard referred to as 'Three Continents Watson'. It is not a tremendous leap of logic to assume that the man who carries that title either has had lovers all over the world and is quite capable of expressing his own needs and seeing to it that they are adequately met without trepidation, or that it is a cruel mockery based upon his complete lack of experience.  
Though, if that were the case, I should expect his tormentors would not hold back, and if it were in jest he would have been called 'Six Continents Watson'."_ _

__He was absolutely correct. My mind couldn't help but attempt to fill in the missing pieces: Europe and Asia seemed a certainty, and the third.... Had Watson adventured in Australia before joining the army? Been involved in the events concerning Cape Colony in advance of a military transfer to Afghanistan? For all I knew, he could have been in northern Alberta, rescuing grateful maidens from the clutches of the Wendigo._ _

__It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. But it served to illustrate there was much to learn about Dr John H. Watson, and it would be best to learn it myself, rather than any pieced together version from Langdon Pike. I smiled brightly at Pike, briefly debated asking him about some other matter, but instead decided to simply wish him good day and head back to Baker Street._ _

__On the walk back, I continued to ruminate upon my decision to meet with him. And, after further consideration, I still wasn't entirely certain what I had expected to hear. _Anything_ , I told myself. Anything is better than the nothing you know now. Nothing about Watson. Nothing about sexuality. Nothing about relationships. You. Know. Nothing._ _

__It was already late afternoon. If I could delay matters until the evening- be out of the flat and send a telegram stating my sincerest apologies for the delay- then I would have time to meet with one of the men who worked the parks. They would not be at their usual locations until well after dark, and for a sovereign we could simply discuss if I should be the.... What was I thinking? I was not above suspicion when it came to making solicitation arrests. I was helpful to Scotland Yard, but not nearly helpful enough for them to refrain from bringing me in on charges, should I be seen with the wrong person at the wrong time. No lives hung in the balance, only my own sense of pride. I once again had to ask myself to reconsider what I was about to do._ _

__So, what did I have to work with, save for instinct reinforced by observation? It felt so feeble when contrasted with working knowledge. My darkness of thought was closing in upon me. I thought again how it was that I should be far more at ease in my knowledge of how to kill a man than in how to kiss him, when it suddenly occurred to me that that knowledge was equally theoretical. I had not killed a man. Yes the first move, the first move would be difficult. But after, it would be a matter of simple observation and adjustment. This was playing by ear. No, this was composing. Making something new based on the few set rules I had amassed, and changing it if it was not sounding the way I wished for it to sound. What had Watson said regarding my hands? I should start there. I should use my hands to good effect. Not entirely unfamiliar, and yet still new. The analogy was vexing in its overriding simplicity, but no less truth._ _

__An hour left and feeling far more confident, I decided to dust off the anatomy book and give it a quick glance. Perhaps there would be something else of use. I required no outside assistance, but a small refresher of my own would not be without purpose. Watson had some newer journals, and I had just found a pertinent diagram within one when the door clicked open. My hand was waving Billy away before I followed its trajectory, saw it was not Billy, and froze in place._ _

__"Watson. You are back quite sooner than I should have expected."_ _

__"The building was... not what I had hoped. I had no wish to see the interior rooms, given that, and I headed back. I stopped by the telegraph office on the way back to cancel the appointment and advise the leasing agent that I would be looking elsewhere."_ _

__"I see. The one off St James?"_ _

__"That very one. And you have made good use of the time by," he came up behind me and looked at the stack of his medical journals I had strewn upon my circular table, "... by some light reading of the BMJ's Men's Health Edition?"_ _

__"Certainly. One wishes always to be kept abreast of new discoveries."_ _

__"If you have plans--"_ _

__"I have no plans save the continuation of our interrupted ones. May I proceed?"_ _

__"By all means." Watson moved in closer, pinning me to the chair with his weight. He kissed me again, even slower this time. It felt as if he were somehow testing me. Searching for something. This was not to be about me, but about him._ _

__I ran my hands across his trouser fronts, and briefly considered suggesting an alternate position, but thought I would do best to not interrupt the sequence of events. Instead, I undid his flies quickly whilst he continued to kiss me- albeit far more fiercely now. I slipped my hand inside his undergarments and the heat of his skin was surprising, but what had truly taken me aback was the texture of it. My own hand upon myself should have yielded a similar sensation but, in fact, it had not. In the act of stroking him, I was keenly aware of the softness of skin, the smoothness of it as I slid along his shaft; but, of course the softness of the skin was countered by the rigidity of his cockstand. The sensations were... exceptionally balanced... and I was thoroughly attuned to his reactions. I slid my hand downward toward his stomach and elicited a low groan. Moved in the reverse manner, I received a lovely, sharp intake of breath for my efforts. To combine both motions, along with a deep kiss, was perfection itself._ _

__

__*****_ _

__

__“It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work.”_ _

__“And from the same cause,” said I. “These are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."_ _

__The lawn of Pondicherry Lodge was indeed a mess. _Ballarat. Australia._ So it had been someone in the minefields of Australia- a digger- not some Wendigo-fearing maiden. _ _

__"What?" said Watson._ _

__I wondered precisely what part of my thoughts I had uttered aloud. "Oh. I merely mentioned to myself that Ballarat was in Australia."_ _

__"Yes. And what of my statement that I had seen such holes in Australia bears repeating? And not ordinary repeating. Contemplative repeating."_ _

__At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. “There is something amiss with Bartholomew!” he cried. “I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it.”_ _

__We hurried within. The discovery we would shortly make, preserved within the pages of Sign of Four, is well known. We returned to Baker Street once more. What Watson neglected to preserve within those pages, however, was our amorous congress, which had become somewhat of a standing tradition upon the resolution of a case._ _

__“Well, and there is the end of our little drama,” he remarked in bed, after we had sat some time in silence. "And, lest you think I had forgotten, there is the small matter of Ballarat.”_ _

__I gave a most dismal groan._ _

__"So why is my time in Australia suddenly noteworthy?"_ _

__"You had not mentioned your ever having even been to Australia. Difficult land. Breeds strong men. Or, so one might presume."_ _

__He grinned. "I would agree with that assessment. Do I spot a touch of, disquietude? Is there a reason you think I should have avoided such a place? It’s unsavoury origins notwithstanding, there were fortunes to be made and lost within the mines, and many honourable opportunities. I have experiences extending over many nations."_ _

__"Yes. And... three separate continents." I still do not know why I gave the game away. The words themselves seemed to push me to it._ _

__He shifted back in agitation. "So you _did_ meet with him about me. The man in the restaurant. Who was he? He was looking right at me, from the street. Just as you might feel when going about your regular business when suddenly you feel the pull of eyes set upon you? Suddenly, I was aware of his watching me, and I looked up to see him smile as if he had added one more secret to the vast trove he had already possessed. Some massive treasure-chest, filled with them. And then he broke eye contact and turned to… you. I stood in the street for a moment, watching the both of you talking. Took a bit of the long way 'round, to walk and think. I had just decided Paddington brought me too far away from our home, from you, and there you were, having a luncheon meeting you had declined to mention. I decided it was early yet, and we were both entitled not to disclose all aspects of our lives- that it was entirely unreasonable to think otherwise- and I headed home. He was the odd piece of the puzzle, but now it makes sense. Damn few people who know me by that nickname survived the war to be able speak it aloud. How you found one in so short a time is beyond my comprehension."_ _

__"I'm sorry. Langdon Pike is no military hero, he is merely a gossip monger. I wished to find out more about you."_ _

__"To verify my reliability?" He seemed to ease back down. "Surely one in your position might have enemies. Understandable."_ _

__I might have left it at that. I did not. Did physically intimate acts encourage truth-telling? That would be a matter for further study. "No, not at all. To, attempt to judge your proclivities. To be a better partner to you. That was a concern of mine. When the relationship was new. I wanted to start it off right."_ _

__"Ah! Because you had bluffed your way into seeming like a man who had much experience, when in fact you had very little."_ _

__That should not have hurt nearly as much as it did._ _

__"It was not a deliberate bluff. We had, somewhat of an initial miscommunication. But the outcome was magnificent."_ _

__"My dear Holmes, you are a brilliant man and a quick study, but some things do take time to master. That you were a novice at certain acts was quite obvious upon the first few occasions. After that, you easily surpassed any of my previous lovers."_ _

__I blushed._ _

__"But before that turning point, although your inexperience was outshone by your enthusiasm, it was certainly there to be read. You did not make a study of it, and in fact you were, I daresay, entirely inexperienced in such matters upon our first meeting. And now, I finally have unearthed your secret."_ _

__“I feared as much,” said I. “I really cannot congratulate you.”_ _

__Now it was he who seemed a little hurt. “Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my methods?” he asked._ _

__“Not at all. I think you are one of the most perceptive men I have ever met... and this might just prove useful in such work as we have been doing." I winked, and he laughed. "You have a decided genius that way, Watson. Witness the way in which you preserved that information all this time, awaiting your moment of confirmation."_ _

__He disregarded my mockery, waited a moment, then looked at me with a sobering sincerity. "Had you truly thought I would think the lesser of you? Of one who can read and deliver upon my every whim?"_ _

__"Insecurity is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never succumb to such myself, lest I bias my judgment.”_ _

__“I trust,” said he, laughing once more, “that your judgment has survived the ordeal. But you look weary.”_ _

__I cast my half-lidded eyes upward to gaze upon him, my arm draped dramatically across my forehead. “Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week.”_ _

__“Strange,” said he, “how such lassitude follows fits of splendid energy and vigour.”_ _

__"Yes,” I answered, “there are in me the makings of a very fine lover, and also a selfishly sybaritic sort of a fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe: 'Schade dass die Natur nur einen Mensch aus dir schuf, Denn zum wurdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.' By the way, apropos of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour of having caught one fish in his great haul.”_ _

__“The division seems rather unfair,” he remarked. “You have done all the work in this business. Miss Morstan gets her treasure, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?”_ _

__“For me,” said I, “there is always you.” And I stretched my long, white hand he so admired up for his._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goethe translation (Roughly): "It's a shame that Nature made you just one person, since there was enough raw material for a good man and a rogue."
> 
> Regarding the six continents, which gives John Watson an impressive 1:2 ratio....I did research that bit. Took me a while. Eventually I was able to determine that English cartographers did not include Antartica until 1890 because it was deemed unimportant, and I used Study in Scarlet to confirm there was thought to be a continent of North America and therefore there must be a continent of South America ( not just a northern and southern region of The Americas)
> 
> While working on this, I mentioned to some fellow writers that I conceived of Langdon Pike as a sort of Mycroft Holmes and Mr Birling have a baby and he becomes Perez Hilton. They suggested I put that in author's notes. I agreed.
> 
> Comments/Feedback welcome. Nay...encouraged. :) Happy New Year!  
> Thank you to betas Vulgarweed, Not-Too-Late-For-The-Game, and Bluebellofbakerstreet...and of course to Okapi!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this a late-night proofing breath4soul, bluebellofbakersstreet and nottolateforthegame.


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